


The Bluest Crossroads

by Swiftfoot



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swiftfoot/pseuds/Swiftfoot
Summary: As Ian tries to process his life without Mickey, a new, intriguing figure enters his world. Soon Ian must choose between the ghosts of his past and an uncertain future as he struggles to keep the pieces of his life from falling apart.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up directly after episode 6x01 "I Only Miss Her When I'm Breathing."

Ian rested his head against the window. His matted red hair stuck to the side of his face. His nose was pressed so close to the glass that his breath created a dense layer of steam. He could hear Yevgeny cooing softly next to him, but he paid the toddler no mind. His thoughts were racing. He wouldn’t go back. He couldn’t. No matter how much Svetlana paid him. He couldn’t bear to see Mickey again, shackled, clad in an orange jumpsuit, their every interaction punctuated by 6 inches of bulletproof glass. It was hard for Ian to accept that the man he loved no longer belonged to him. Mickey was now the legal property of the State of Illinois. 

The car jerked. The Uber driver rolled down his window. Ian couldn’t understand the expletives he assumed were being hurdled in the man’s native tongue, and he didn’t much care. Just another day in Chicago as far as he was concerned. He didn’t even notice the pungent smell emanating from the backseat. A rancid combination of what smelled like onions, spoiled goat milk and fresh baby shit. At least one of those smells was easy to account for. Svetlana, however, was not so easily placated.

“It smells like death back here,” Svetlana complained in her thick Russian accent. “Bad smells not good for baby.” 

“Perhaps one of the bad smells is baby, no?” the driver shot back in a matching accent. 

“Are you this rude to all your customers?” 

“How do the Americans say? I give only what I receive.”

“You are Russian. You are from which part?” Svetlana inquired.

“I was born in a small town near Orenburg. I came to America ten years ago.”

“I traveled to Orenburg right before my fucking piece of shit father sold me into prostitution. I have family there. Maybe we are related.”

Ian remained unfazed, even by this bizarre conversation. His thoughts ebbed and flowed violently, like waves crashing on a beach. It was out of his control. The synapses in his brain betrayed him.

_Maybe Mickey could break out,_ he thought. _Yeah, and I could help plan his escape. I can send him a poster and he can tunnel his way out with a spoon like in that movie I saw._

_Mickey is the only person who understands me, accepts me for who I am. Fuck, I’ll be alone for the rest of my life…_

_Fuck him. I didn’t ask him to throw his life away on an ill-advised murder plot. I don’t like Sammi either, but come on._

_When I get home, I’ll download the blueprints to the prison. Once he tunnels out, he’ll need someone to drive getaway. Maybe I’ll borrow Kevin’s truck. I guess that would make me an accomplice…_

_I’ve gotta find a way to move on. The question is: should I fuck 10 guys or 20?_

“Stop!” 

Ian’s involuntary outburst ground the car’s conversation to a halt. Svetlana turned to him worriedly. Ian could feel her pull Yevgeny a little closer. It was a reaction he had grown used to since his diagnosis.

“You want I stop?” the driver asked sincerely.

“Yes, please,” Ian said. “Just pull over here.”

As Ian stepped out of the car, Svetlana touched him gently on the arm. “No, Ian you cannot walk home from here. It is too far. And it looks like it will rain,” she implored.

“I’ll be fine,” he answered. “I just need some time to clear my head.”

“Same time next month, yes?”

“Yeah, sure,” he lied, before shutting the door. He watched as the dark red car pulled off, made a left turn and disappeared out of sight. He looked around and calculated that he was a couple miles from home. So he trudged forward, kicking an old cigarette carton and praying that the rain gods might give him a decent chance to make it home dry.

What bothered Ian most was not necessarily the uncontrollable avalanche of irrational and often downright dangerous thoughts he was having. It was more that, no matter how reckless, they all seemed like good ideas. 

_Becoming an accomplice in Mickey’s prison breakout?_ Made sense. _Dulling his pain with a giant orgy complete with questionable characters and unprotected sex?_ Why not? 

His meds still weren’t perfectly calibrated and he was still adjusting to the complex cocktail of drugs he’d been prescribed. Hell, he was only just beginning to acknowledge that he needed them. But in moments like these, he knew he did. He knew they would keep him from doing something he’d regret.

The soft pitter patter of rain lulled him into an almost hypnotic trance. The gods had chosen not to answer his prayers. And so he walked, with an ironic appreciation for the impending storm overhead.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ian, you’re soaked,” Fiona croaked as soon as he walked in the house. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine Fiona,” Ian replied halfheartedly.

“You walking home in the middle of a thunderstorm would suggest otherwise. I thought you were getting a ride with Svetlana.”

Ignoring his sister, Ian flopped down at the kitchen table. The rainwater trickled down his body and pooled into a little puddle beneath his feet. While Fiona hovered over him, Lip was busy making dinner, darting back and forth between the stove, the pantry and the refrigerator. In the largest pot a thick red sauce bubbled like molten lava, filling the room with the scent of oregano and garlic.

“Give it a rest Fi,” Lip said. “Hey, how was Mickey?”

“Umm...incarcerated,” Ian answered.

“I begged him to leave Sammi alone,” Fiona added.

“Well the Milkoviches do have a penchant for attempted murder,” Lip chuckled as he scooped up a giant spoonfull of spaghetti and drenched it in the lava-like concoction he’d created. “I’ve always found it best to stay away. That family is a car wreck.” He knew it too. It hadn’t been that long ago that Mickey’s younger sister, Mandy, had run over Lip’s ex-girlfriend with her car. It was a memory he tried not to think about.

He dropped the plate in front of Ian.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat something. I may not be a world class chef, but it’s likely 10 times better than prison food.” Ian wasn’t so sure. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I haven’t,” Ian admitted.

“All the more reason for you to eat now,” Lip said. “You can be my guinea pig. If you like it, then maybe I can get Carl and Debbie to eat it.” Ian stared at the mountain of spaghetti hesitantly. He could feel both of their eyes pointed at him. He twirled his fork through the spaghetti and brought it slowly to his mouth.

The truth is, Lip had been keeping an especially close eye on Ian. As hard as it was for him to admit, he’d been having a hard time recognizing the person he now watched eat as though he was attempting to swallow a mouthful of rubber. It was as if aliens had abducted his brother in the middle of the night and replaced him with a very convincing replacement. This doppelganger looked like Ian. He talked like Ian. He even smelled like Ian. But as far as Lip was concerned, the ambitious, goofy kid he’d grown up with seemed increasingly foreign. 

He knew his brother needed him and he was happy to help. But he was growing exhausted with the everyday task of ensuring that Ian was eating and sleeping and taking his pills. Sometimes Ian needed more supervision than Liam. But Lip felt he owed it to his brother to be attentive. He hadn’t taken Ian’s erratic behavior seriously enough before. He’d let Mickey run the show, to disastrous results. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I’m full,” Ian stated matter of factly. He dropped his fork and it landed on the table with a loud clang. “I’ll tell Carl and Debbie it was great.” With that, he got up and disappeared upstairs, leaving Fiona and Lip to worry in silence. 

It had been 24 days since Mickey had gone to prison. And it had been 25 days since Ian had officially moved back home. He’d enjoyed his makeshift family. He, Mickey and Svetlana made for a pretty good team. In many ways, Ian had been the glue keeping them all together. He helped Svet cook and clean and take care of Yevgeny. And he helped Mickey run numbers, illegally sell furniture and execute whatever other criminal schemes they could cook up. For the first time in his life, he’d felt useful. And needed. Now that he was back in the Gallagher house, he felt his stock price taking a major hit. Fiona and Lip watched his every move like a pair of hawks. He swore they were on rotating shifts. He would often catch them eyeing him from across the room or lingering on the other side of his bedroom door, clumsily attempting to listen in on his nonexistent conversations.

Debbie, on the other hand, was taking the opposite approach and was avoiding him almost entirely. He didn’t blame her considering he’d almost knocked her unconscious a few weeks before. Sure, it was during one of his paranoid manic states, but he recognized the need to give her some space.

Carl and Liam were the only two treating him relatively normal. Carl would occasionally pepper him with questions, mostly asking him what it was like to be crazy, but the intention was harmless. Carl, it seemed, was the only Gallagher genuinely interested in the inner workings of Ian’s brain. Liam, being six, showed more interest in his Lego blocks and coloring books than Ian’s drama. And Ian appreciated him for it.

Time flew by and before long the days turned into weeks and the weeks became a month. Ian tried to fill his time any way he could. He started doing crossword puzzles, but soon tired of them. Next he moved on to binging military history documentaries. He thought they might rekindle his past love of the army, but in actuality they just made him depressed and resentful of a life that had slipped away from him. Finally, he’d turned to reading. Mostly books on mental health and a few on alternative treatments. Initially he believed learning more about his illness would be helpful, and it was. But it was also heightening his anxiety. The good news was that almost every book he read reassured him that bipolar disorder is manageable. The problem was that Ian didn’t want to be managed. He just wanted to be him. 

One sunny afternoon, as Fiona bounded into the living room, her Patsy’s t-shirt wrinkle free and neatly pressed, she caught Ian nose-first in a self-help book.

“You joined a book club?” she asked.

“Just a little reading on meditation,” he said, spinning the book around to show her the cover. “I thought it might help, ya know?”

“We could definitely use a bit more of that around here.”

He felt her lingering and could sense her jitteriness as he peered at her over the brim of his paperback.

“Spit it out Fiona,” he said finally.

“You’ve made it pretty clear that you’re not going back to school. But have you thought more about what’s next? I know you’ve gotta be getting tired of sitting in the house all day.”

“You’re trying to say I need to get a job?”

“I’m saying that I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to cut yourself off from everything. And yes, a job would be nice. We all have to help row the boat around here, you know that.”

“Thanks for the reminder Fiona.”

“I hear the Waffle House is hiring up the street. Or maybe I could get you on down at Patsy’s.”

“No thanks,” Ian responded as he closed his book and began to head upstairs.

“Ian, even if you don’t get a job, have you considered volunteering? Anything to get you out of the house. This isn’t an ultimatum. I’m just asking you to consider it.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it,” he said, finalizing his exit.

Fiona was getting used to Ian abruptly leaving in the middle of tense or awkward conversations. Her worries were giving way to a creeping sense of dread. She knew that Ian wasn’t Monica. (For starters, he was taking his medication.) But at times, the similarities were unmistakable. A kind smile could quickly turn into a heated argument. His sullen moods could last days, draining the positive energy from the house like an old car battery left out in a snowstorm, it’s electric coils sapped by cold and bitter winds. She hated to think what would happen if she was finally forced to deliver an ultimatum. She loved Ian, true; but she also had Debbie and Carl and Liam to think of. It was not a scenario she relished.

Which is why she was pleasantly surprised when the next day, as she stepped onto the porch to enjoy her morning coffee, she saw a red-headed blur fly past her. Ian’s hair was perfectly coiffed. His plaid shirt and khaki pants a little boring and outdated, but a welcome retreat from the well-worn sweatpants and dirty bathrobe combo she’d grown accustomed to him rocking.

He tossed her a warm smile as he bounced along towards his destination. “You were right, Fiona.”

She smiled back as she watched him rejoin the civilized world, proud that her sisterly influence had won the Ian Gallagher seal of approval.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first attempt at writing fanfic. It starts calmly, but it picks up I promise. Please leave your thoughts and comments below!


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